Not the Grey
by explodedchildren
Summary: Molly/Sherlock...Sherlolly, Mollock, whatever you guys call it. Sherlock asks Molly out on a date - much to her surprise - after an all-too-interesting day at the lab he managed to flirt himself into. No smut, just fluff. R&R!


"Hello, Molly," Sherlock smiled, in the way that he only did when he wanted something. Then again, when did he ever speak to me? Only when he wanted something. Then again, when did _anyone_ speak to me? It occurred to me, only in that moment, that I really was quite a mug.

I nodded at him. "Hi." I was stupidly nervous, because the last time I saw him he'd been x-raying that girl's phone. I bit my lip, then realised I was doing it and stopped. Still, it probably didn't matter. He'd have deduced exactly what I was feeling already by the colour of my socks or the way I'd fastened my lab coat or something. Naturally, he wouldn't understand the reason behind it. It was the _only_ thing he didn't understand, to be fair. Nonetheless, it was thoroughly infatuating.

The world seemed to spin a little bit when he started talking about a case where tattoos had been done on victims after they were killed. I wasn't listening, though it wasn't because he was boring, or even because I had something more important to think about. I just couldn't concentrate; not that it would matter, as he was talking at me rather than to me, like the last time John went to Dublin for two weeks and Sherlock didn't notice he'd gone until he found out Mrs Hudson had been the one buying him milk.

"Molly?" He stopped abruptly so I did too, frowning in confusion at his expectant glare. I swear he was staring right through me. Suddenly, he leaned forward, looking right into my eyes...and then his eyes travelled upwards, an inch away from my face. "You changed your hair again," he pointed out, and I blinked heavily and slowly, not comprehending what he was talking about or how anything was relevant to anything else.

"Ah, yeah, well..."

I trailed off and he ignored me once again, continuing his mindless rant and quick stride to the lab so furiously I was practically running to keep up with him. _Damn_ his legs being twice the length of mine.

"Molly?" He stopped suddenly again, spinning on his heel to stare at me. I tripped and nearly fell sideways, but he caught my elbow with his hand and cupped my cheek, leaning forwards again. His gaze seemed to penetrate everything, staring right...not through me, but inside me. It was unnerving, only his eyes were so deep and I was staring into them...

"How often do you normally eat?" he asked, and his tone was so exasperated it must have been at least the third time he'd said it.

"I...uh... What?" I frowned.

"Humans. Normal people. You...John..._people_. How often do you have to eat?" Clearly, he did not categorise himself as a _normal person_, or, seemingly, a human.

"Um...three times a day..." I replied slowly, not quite understanding where he was going with this one. His hand was still curved around my cheek and it was icy, but my skin seemed to burn where he touched me. I hoped I wasn't as red as I felt.

"You're pale," he observed, as though he was reading my mind, and relief washed over me, until he continued, "And you didn't eat this morning...last night...since Tuesday night, did you?" He frowned, then, uncertain. "Today is Thursday, correct?" I nodded wordlessly, mesmerised.

"Well then...it is only logical to assume your paleness, difficulty concentrating and-"

But I didn't hear the end of his theory, because he somehow he span around 90° to meet...not the floor, because the whole room span with him. Something cold pressed against my face, but it was much harder than Sherlock's hand. I blinked, dazed, but then my eyes wouldn't open and everything was quiet for a few too many moments.

When I opened my eyes, there was still something hard pressed against my face, but it was warmer than the floor and it moved rhythmically. There were long arms tangled around my body and I was being rather quickly transported through the morgue to the lab, the rooms an icy white blur around me. Sherlock's face peered inquisitively down at me, like I was one of his experiments.

"Oh! You're awake. I was taking you to the lab, but since you're not unconscious anymore..." He let go of my body, keeping one arm wrapped around my back, and set me on my feet, then let go of me completely. Two steps forward, and then the floor came up to meet my face.

"Hmm..." He picked me up again, and I could have sworn I heard him apologise, but I was probably delirious by that point. The door to the lab opened with a creek, and then the coldness and the clinicalness overwhelmed me and I closed my eyes, before squeezing them tight and opening them. It would be dreadfully humiliating to look so fragile in front of _him_. I wasn't _that_ feeble.

He murmured something to me, and helped me down, before assisting me into a chair and subtly checking my pulse, steadying me when I swayed to the side just a little. Okay, maybe I _was_ that weak.

"Here," he offered, and he pulled an apple and a bag of crisps out of his coat, placing them on the counter in front of us. I looked at him sceptically; did he actually carry food around in his pocket? _That_ was surprising, especially considering he didn't...well, _eat_.

"What?" he wondered defensively, and I shrugged, reaching for the apple. He was right; I was starving. I'd been busy, and I suppose I'd forgotten to eat? _Forgotten? Sounds like something _he'd_ say_...

"Nothing..." I promised, and he shrugged, dismissing it. He pulled a pile of laminated photos out of the other pocket, and a Petri-dish of something; I dread to think what.

I stood up when I'd finished the apple, nervously hovering – though trying not to, because he hated _hoverers_ – near the microscope, combing my hair with my fingers in an attempt to smooth it down, assuming it had got messed up in the whole collapsing fiasco.

"It looks fine," Sherlock said too clearly to be mumbling to himself, without looking up. I jumped, like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have been doing, and tilted my head, looking innocent and curious.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, furrowing my brow. I'd heard him perfectly; I just didn't understand him.

"Your hair," he explained, looking up briefly from the microscope to glare pointedly at the area of my body in question. "It looks fine."

I stopped trying to sort it and swallowed, biting my dry lips awkwardly. A moment later, he grinned cockily like he did when he'd just realised the most obvious thing in the world, that was obvious only to him, and looked up at me.

"Not the secretary," he directed the statement at me, eyes boring into my own, though I hadn't a clue what he was talking about – no change there, then. "The _gardener_. The gardener!" He winked at me. "It was the earring, of course – _of course_. Nobody noticed the earring." He said this last bit almost morosely, like he could somehow empathise with the lonely, unnoticed earring.

"I see..." That was a lie; I didn't see at all. Sherlock gathered his Petri-dish and looked around intently for something.

"Can you get me an evidence bag? Lestrade's going to need this back."

By 'back', I wondered if he meant he was returning a borrowed item, or stolen evidence. I didn't suppose it mattered to Sherlock, though. "Um, sure..." I mumbled, fumbling around until I found him one in one of the drawers. When I turned around to hand it to him, I discovered Sherlock staring calculatingly at me, like he'd done before. Was I going to faint again? I looked around, and the room didn't spin, so I assumed I was fine. Was it Sherlock, then? Was something wrong with him?

"Are you okay?" I checked, knowing he wouldn't tell me even if he wasn't, but feeling the need to ask regardless. He cocked his head to the side and kept looking at me, squinting a little when his glance met mine.

"Of course, yes, never better. What are your plans now?" he asked, making me frown. Clearly, he'd finished here now, and the only time my schedule concerned him was when he was trying – and, admittedly, succeeding – to flirt his way into the lab after closing time, or into the morgue to analyse a body that was meant to have been dealt with already.

"What, now? Uh, not really...I mean, I'm not actually working today, I only came in because..." I trailed off; the way he stared at me like that really was rather unnerving...or maybe just distracting. Quite possibly in a good way.

He shook his head. "Not now. Later. Seven. What are you doing at seven o'clock tonight?"

I frowned again. "Nothing...?" My confusion made the reply seem more like another question, but he seemed to understand.

"Well, Miss Hooper, we'll have to get you something to eat, of course. Can't have you fainting all over the place, can we? I'll see you at Angelo's at seven. You know where it is, correct?" I nodded wordlessly, quite sure my mouth was hanging open but not having the capacity to be able to close it. He continued, "Wear something nice," and paused, reading my mind, apparently, though my mind seemed to have frozen: "The red one looks better than the grey. I'll see you later," he slung his coat – when had he taken that off? – over his shoulder, putting it back on in one swift movement, and knotting his scarf as he winked at me from behind the closing door.

I'm not sure quite how long I stood, leaning on the lab stool, with my mouth and eyes wide open, staring at the space he'd been stood in. Had Sherlock Holmes just asked me out on a date? As I recall, I never actually said yes to him, but that was beside the point. _Sherlock Holmes just asked me out. I'm going on a date with Sherlock Holmes. Tonight. _This last thought dragged me out of my stupor and into reality, forcing me to remember that there were things I needed to do before seven. _The red, not the grey_, I stuttered under my breath, unbuttoning my lab coat and tossing it across the chair. _The red, not the grey_.


End file.
